HOMOSASSA SHADOWS Page 2

  Hurrying back across the yard, she sidled past the body, stepped up onto the pier, and took her seat again behind the wheel. For a moment she paused, listening to the slap of water against the posts, then heard a motor-boat pick up speed as it zoomed out of the slower manatee zone.

  From a pocket on the console she pulled her small reporter’s notebook. Jotting down every detail was important, not only for the Sheriff s Office, but for the story she would eventually write. Careful notes were her hallmark. She began recording her observations. Near Hart’s corpse a Carolina skiff with a marine decal had been dragged out of the water and turned over; Alma May Flint’s own fishing boat was gone; above the high water mark on the pier hung a faded sign: Rooms by Week. Meals. Brandy scanned the yard, barren except for tufts of wiregrass, a scattering of oyster shells, and a large Grapple Realty For Sale sign.

  Apparently, fishermen didn’t provide Alma May with enough income to make ends meet. Maybe she’d grown tired of life on this isolated island, of boating into town for all her supplies, and realized at last she was too old for the routine. Maybe she had grown tired of her hobby, scavenging among the island’s sugar plantation ruins. Behind a satellite dish and the Realtor’s sign, the Flint family’s historic log house had been painted a bilious green, in a pitiful effort, she imagined, to pretty it up for the market. Still, it offered a choice Florida location to sports fisherman: access to tarpon offshore, as well as to gulf flats and the river. But Brandy didn’t think for a minute that Timothy Hart was excited last night about catching tarpon or grouper. There was something else—something he said would be a momentous “discovery.”

  The story she would write might not be the one Timothy Hart had expected. After all, he didn’t know he would die. But when Brandy looked at the still form in the weeds, she remembered how eager he had been to make his great find and report it to the world. Last night she had found

  Hart oddly endearing, stutter and all, and vulnerable. Whatever had almost been in his grasp, now was forever lost to him. She made a silent vow. She would learn if some kind of treasure did exist in this old town. If it did, she would report it as Hart had wished, not only for herself, but because she had promised him she would.

  Brandy laid down her pencil and ran her fingers through her clipped, reddish hair, damp now in the April sunlight. She remembered with a shudder the black vultures that squatted in turkey oaks along the shore. She wanted to see Hart’s body covered. It deserved to be treated with dignity

  She shifted her gaze to the river ahead and spotted the Sheriff’s Office patrol boat, slicing toward the island. A youthful deputy in a deep green uniform moored near her boat and stepped out onto the pier. A stick of a man in slacks, carrying a black bag, followed close behind.

  The deputy looked at Brandy and removed a green cap with a white star. “Much obliged for your call, M’am,” he said, forehead glistening with perspiration.

  She walked across the dock where he stood and stared down at the body. “I’ve got some information about the dead man that might help,” she said, “I met him and his friends last night. He said he wasn’t feeling well, said his name was Timothy Hart.”

  While the deputy printed her current phone number and address in careful letters in his notebook, the medical examiner sat back on his heels beside the corpse, thin legs bent like coat hangers. “Autopsy should show something,” he reported in a dry voice. “No obvious cause of death.” He poked, listened, sighed. “Might be stroke or heart. Not my guess, though.” He stood and brushed the seat of his trousers. “Before we move him, better give homicide a holler.”

  While the deputy made the call to the command center, Brandy watched with a puzzled frown. Hart had symptoms of an illness last night. Probably the doctor couldn’t detect the disease that killed him and wanted to cover all bases.

  “For one thing,” the examiner added, “looks like the guy was searched. Pockets are wrong side out, and he’s been turned over. A person doesn’t usually collapse on the back.”

  Brandy had not thought about the body’s position. “Last night Hart said he expected to make some important discovery here in Homosassa.”

  The deputy shook his head. “Tourists,” he said, disdain in his voice. “I could’ve saved him some trouble. There’s sure nothing valuable in old Homosassa.”

  He began stringing yellow crime scene tape far out in the yard around the body. “I walked across the yard myself,” Brandy explained.

  The young man made more notes, then flipped the pad shut. “You know Mrs. Flint, old lady lives here?” Brandy nodded. “She’ll be fit to be tied. A dead guy on her property, probably a tenant, won’t help her get more renters.” He gazed for a moment at the river. “You live in a small town, you get to know folks’ habits. Mrs. Flint’s likely in town grocery shopping, or poking around the old plantation grounds, like she does.”

  Brandy remembered Alma May Flint as self-sufficient and elderly and much admired by Brandy’s Homosassa friend, Carole. “Met her a couple of times at craft shows,” she said. “Hart claimed he was buying her house.” She glanced at the “For Sale’ sign, still posted.

  The deputy lifted his cap to let a light breeze ruffle his sand-colored hair, and resettled it at a smart angle. “You’re free to go now, Miss. I’ll tell the sergeant where he can reach you.”

  On her own note pad Brandy doodled a stick figure with a round head, lying face up. “Believe I’ll wait,” she said. “I’d like to talk to the detective.” She added, not quite truthfully, “I might be able to help Mrs. Flint.”

  The young deputy shrugged. “Suit yourself, Miss. The sergeant will want your statement, all right, but he won’t want to talk to the press. He won’t like it, you’re being a reporter. He won’t like it one cotton-pickin’ bit.”

  Brandy stepped back into her boat without answering. She dropped into the captain’s chair, relieved to be off her feet. She felt weak, overcome by more than the death of Timothy Hart. The history of Tiger Tail Island was riddled with violence. She’d read about the sugar plantation that burned during the Civil War, and an earlier Seminole Indian massacre. Even before that, the Spaniards led a deadly clash with the first Indians along the river.

  A cloud passed over the sun and cast a shadow across the island. Brandy felt a gathering force. A chill crept over her, in spite of the morning heat. The sensation was stronger than the unease she had felt earlier. She wrapped her arms protectively around herself. Timothy Hart was not the only person who had died on this island, and most died violently. She could almost feel the impact of all that fear and tragedy. Some would say she could still feel their anguish.

  CHAPTER 2

  Brandy heard Alma May Flint’s jon boat churning down Petty Creek before she saw it. The old lady herself was perched at the tiller, strands of gray hair flying from a crude knot at the back of her head. Another woman sat on the middle seat, a scarf wrapped around her head, a large cloth bag clutched in one hand, the other gripping the bare plank. Alma May maneuvered the boat into her slip, tied up, and clambered onto the pier, a long, shapeless smock clinging to her legs. Without waiting for her companion, she stalked across the dock, a wiry figure, not more than five feet tall, a set look on her small, pinched face.

  “Seen your boat at my place soon’s I come around the last turn,” she said to the deputy. “What’s the problem, son?”

  The young deputy removed his cap. “Sorry, Mrs. Flint. This lady here,” he motioned toward Brandy in her pontoon boat, “she called us about an hour ago. I’m afraid she found a body near your house. I’m waiting for the detective.”

  “Well, I swan,” Mrs. Flint said. She marched over the rough boards and peered down at the still uncovered figure near the shore. “Dad-gum! He’s my boarder, all right, poor soul, and my buyer, too. I told him he needed a doctor.” She turned toward the other woman, now struggling up onto the dock. “You hear that, Melba? We lost our Mr. Hart.”

  Brandy studied the older woman’s tall, bony friend
with interest. She must be Melba Grapple, the real estate agent who had sold half the properties in Homosassa. The woman pulled off her scarf, thrust it into her bag, shook out her short, bleached hair, and followed Alma May as she started across the yard.

  “It’s okay to go on in the house,” the deputy said. “Couldn’t find any tracks. Shells are too hard packed.”

  Mrs. Flint turned sharp blue eyes on him, an edge to her voice. “Indeed, young man, I hope to heaven I can always go into my own house.”

  “Someone’s been here before Miss O’Bannon,” he explained, his tone more subdued.

  Brandy stood quickly. “Mrs. Flint!” she called to the old woman’s retreating back. “Remember me? The reporter from the Gainesville Star? We met through my friend Carol Brewster.” As Mrs. Flint paused, Brandy strode closer. “I’m waiting to talk to the detective. I feel awful about what happened to Mr. Hart. I met him last night.”

  Alma May squinted at Brandy for a second, a hand shielding her eyes. “Carol Brewster? I knew her mama.” She beckoned with one bent finger. “C’mon in out of the heat. Have a bite to eat. Reckon it’s about lunch time.”

  Brandy swung in behind Mrs. Flint’s stooped figure. “I’d like that,” she said. “I see you plan to sell your house. Maybe a story in the papers about the history of Tiger Tail Island and the house would help the sale.” She was picking her way past the satellite dish toward the front steps when another boat engine growled up to the riverbank. While a deputy threw a line around a post, a tall black man in a sports shirt and slacks stepped from the second patrol boat. Brandy halted.

  “Reckon we got to put up with more law men,” Alma May said from the doorway. “Go on now, see him if you got to, and Melba and me will rustle up something to eat.”

  Brandy started back toward the pier. The detective stood beside the body, back very straight, hands on his hips. Brandy hoped the deputies would soon cover the corpse and move it to the lab. She felt an obligation to Timothy Hart. She had believed him. Instead the detective began directing both the first young deputy and then second, who now walked carefully about, snapping photographs of the yard and the body from every angle. Brandy had reached the dock before she recognized the detective. She had not expected to see him again, certainly not in Homosassa. Their last meeting had been in Cedar Key in nearby Levy County. Brandy had been persistent about a homicide case there. She had begged this detective to help her with a scheme and at last he had agreed, mainly to get rid of her.

  She stood patiently without speaking while he knelt to make his own examination. He carefully scooped up a sample of the vomit, then paced around the yard and shore, noticing every blemish in the soil, every indentation in the coating of oyster shells.

  “Detective Strong!” she called finally, smiling. “Are you working in Citrus County now?”

  Puzzled, Sergeant Jeremiah Strong turned. His slacks and shirt were as crisp as the leaves of a cardboard fern, his expression as unbending. She had hoped for an answering grin. Instead, he clapped one large hand to his forehead and shook his head. “Lord, protect me,” he said. She waited for his hallmark Bible quotation. It came, perhaps predictably, from the book of Job. “The thing I have greatly feared is come upon me. How long will ye vex my soul?”

  Brandy stepped forward and held out her hand, which he took briefly, then sighed. “I never know what to call you women who don’t use your husband’s last name. Are you Mrs. Able or Miss O’Bannon?”

  Brandy smiled. “Neither, actually. I’m the wife of John Able, whose name is Brandy O’Bannon. But come on now, friend. Working together in Cedar Key wasn’t all that bad, was it? After all, you caught the bad guy red-handed. I thought you were pleased.”

  He dropped his head. “Almost lost my rank over that case, O’Bannon. Your little plan wasn’t exactly accepted procedure. I put a civilian in danger. You.”

  She moved a few feet closer. “But I’m sure that’s not why you’re in Citrus County now.”

  He crossed long arms over his chest and looked down at her. “No. Better pay. A bigger county, and one that’s growing. In spite of a certain reporter, I had a good reputation. It saved me. We moved to Inverness two years ago so I could take a job at the Sheriffs Office there.” Brandy remembered hearing about Strong’s family. He had a patient wife and two children, one a boy he coached in Little League. She’d liked that about him.

  The body of Timothy Hart, covered with a sheet at last, was being lifted into the patrol boat on a litter, accompanied by the medical examiner. The deputies glanced at Strong, seeking his okay. He nodded.

  “Now looks like we have another death,” Brandy said. “May be natural, of course. Mr. Hart said he was sick. Still, the medical examiner was a little suspicious, and the victim did ask me to get in touch with him. He had a story he wanted to tell.”

  Strong put his hand back on his hips and leaned forward. “Look, Miss O’Bannon or Mrs. Able, or whatever you call yourself, let me be clear. This is law enforcement business. Sometimes you got a problem with that. The Sheriff s Office has a spokesperson, a nice lady you’ll find at the Command Center in Inverness. Go talk to her tomorrow. I have the statement you gave the deputy. I’ll call you if I need you.”

  Strong did not wait for a reply, but began stalking toward the house. Brandy followed. “Forgive me for coming along, Sergeant,” she said sweetly, “but I’ve been invited for lunch by Mrs. Flint. She lives here.”

  Brandy thought she heard him groan as he knocked on the door, but she also thought her presence made Alma May more welcoming when she admitted them both. They stepped into a living room with sturdy maple sideboard and table, a fireplace with a mantle, a stiff looking sofa and two upholstered chairs. The detective asked to use a separate room. He would first speak to the realtor, Melba Grapple.

  Alma May headed back toward the kitchen. “Beats all,” she said. “Finally get a buyer and he passes away. Thought he was looking poorly. I’ve still got one other boarder, but he’s leaving tomorrow.” She paused and glanced at Brandy. “Hope you and Melba like home-made vegetable soup. I’ll heat up some from last night. Early this morning, I brought in a mess of greens and fresh tomatoes.” She gave Brandy a no-nonsense look.

  “And don’t come into the kitchen and try to help. I work quicker by myself.”

  While her hostess banged pans around, Brandy peered at black and white family photographs on the mantle—Alma May as a child with stern looking parents in front of this same house and a portrait of an elderly man with a white beard she supposed was a grandfather. A small shelf under the window held two chipped green bottles, a cream pitcher with a broken spout, and a pewter spoon. In a few minutes, the realtor came back into the living room, while Detective Strong coaxed Mrs. Flint to join him. Next Melba took a seat on the sofa and pulled a lighter and a pack of cigarettes out of her bag. She held the flame beneath the cigarette until the end glowed, then dragged an oyster shell ashtray across the maple table toward her. Her middle-aged face had an aristocratic cast—a beak-like nose, high cheekbones, large clear eyes. Her jeans were designer, her hair job professional. Brandy wondered how she had come to live in Homo-sassa.

  “This house seems to have an interesting history,” Brandy said. “A feature story might help it sell.”

  Melba swung her cigarette in a graceful arc. “Perhaps. The Flints were early settlers. And, of course, there was the Yulee Plantation here. Alma May and I like to explore the grounds. It’s a hobby. Sometimes I find broken pottery or glass bottles. I sent for an Archaeological Site short form. It lets us poke around and record what I find. Alma May’s picked up a few items, too. There’s never been a proper survey, though.”

  “Any chance of valuable artifacts there?”

  Melba ran her fingers through her ash-blonde hair and shook her head. “Anything of value would’ve been found over a hundred years ago.” In the library Brandy had read about David Yulee’s extensive sugar plantation. The crew of a Union gunboat had burned the main house, sla
ve quarters, and chapel, but Homosassa still prided itself on the town’s remaining sugar mill ruins.

  Alma May and Sergeant Strong appeared in the doorway. “I’ll let myself out,” he said. He nodded to Brandy and Melba, opened the front door, and crunched back over the oyster sells.

  The old lady began slapping bowls and small plates on the table, then carried in a wooden bowl of salad greens and sliced tomatoes. Brandy could see Alma May’s vegetable garden through the dining room window. “Law’s started poking and prying, all right,” Alma May said and sighed. “We won’t have a moment’s peace.”

  Brandy shifted the subject. “I was asking about the history of your house, Mrs. Flint.”

  “Flints were here long before David Yulee,” she said, her voice sharp. “They had a little old cabin here before the county was settled. Passel of durned Indians burnt it to the ground. Killed everyone with knives and hatchets but my great-grandpa. He was just a boy then. If he hadn’t been out duck hunting, I wouldn’t be here.”

  Melba took another lady-like puff on her cigarette and said in a quiet voice, “The massacre happened during the second Seminole War, of course. In the mid-eighteen-thirties.”

  Brandy remembered the bartender’s comment last night. “What about the Seminoles who hid out on the island?”

  Alma May’s lip curled downward. “Durned savages. I don’t allow no Indians on my place.”

  Melba spoke up again. “Of course, there haven’t been any Indians around here in more than a century. They were all sent west, except for the few hundred who escaped into the Everglades.”

  Brandy glanced at Alma May. “I saw one last night—with Mr. Hart.”

  The old woman’s eyes glinted. “Well, he ain’t staying here. I hear he’s camping out on the island. It’s a big island. Can’t stop that.”

  After they were seated at the table, Brandy broached the subject of Hart’s search. “Last night Mr. Hart talked about making an important discovery around here. I don’t know if it was something worth a lot of money, or just something of historical interest.” She watched their faces.